Old Wang’s wrinkled hands trembled as he gripped his beloved weed wacker, the machine’s familiar vibrations coursing through his weathered bones. The summer heat bore down on his small garden patch, where weeds sprouted with supernatural persistence.

“These aren’t ordinary weeds,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. “They whisper stories of other times.”

Indeed, each time the weed wacker’s string sliced through the stubborn stems, fragments of voices and visions leaked out like mist. Old Wang had learned to listen carefully over the years.

“Grandfather, you’re talking to the weeds again?” Little Ming appeared at the garden gate, her pigtails swaying in the afternoon breeze.

“Ah, child. Come, let me show you something extraordinary.” Old Wang beckoned her closer, his eyes twinkling with secrets accumulated over decades of gardening.

As Little Ming approached, he pressed the weed wacker’s starter button. The machine hummed to life, but instead of the usual mechanical growl, it produced a melodious tune that seemed to bend the air around them.

“Watch carefully now,” Old Wang whispered.

The weeds began to glow with an otherworldly light. Each cut revealed glimpses of different eras - ancient dynasties, future metropolises, parallel worlds where history had taken different turns.

“Your grandmother used to say I was crazy,” Old Wang chuckled, his voice thick with emotion. “But she never understood that this simple tool was a key to countless realities.”

Little Ming’s eyes widened as she witnessed scenes from the Cultural Revolution bleeding into visions of chrome-plated cities. “Can we… can we go into these places?”

Old Wang’s expression grew serious. “We already are, child. Every time we trim these weeds, we’re stepping through time itself. Why do you think I never finish weeding this garden?”

He gestured at the persistent weeds that seemed to regrow instantly. “Each one is a thread in time’s tapestry. Cut one, and another reality spills through.”

“Is that why Mom disappeared last summer?” Little Ming asked suddenly, her voice barely audible above the weed wacker’s hum.

Old Wang paused, the machine falling silent. The air grew thick with unspoken truths. “Your mother… she understood too well. Sometimes, when you peek too far into other possibilities, they peek back at you.”

The sun was setting now, casting long shadows across the garden. The weeds swayed without wind, their shadows dancing across multiple timelines.

“Will she come back?” Little Ming clutched her grandfather’s sleeve.

Old Wang started the weed wacker again, its mystical tune more haunting than before. “That’s what I’m trying to find out, child. Every day, I search through these temporal weeds, looking for traces of her passage.”

As darkness fell, grandfather and granddaughter stood in the garden, surrounded by glowing weeds that held countless stories and possibilities. The weed wacker continued its gentle hum, cutting pathways through time itself.

And somewhere, in the tangled growth of reality’s garden, a familiar figure watched and waited, knowing that every weed held the potential for reunion or eternal separation.